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It was unfortunate that his poor opinion of her seemed to bother her at some level. Unfortunate and stupid. She must put this behind her now and consign him to a place of little importance in her life. He was a mere footnote. A missed opportunity. Something that was not meant to be.

Theo lifted her chin and trudged on. She would rise to this challenge, she must. She would give herself a couple of days to recover from this blow and then she must resurrect her scheme from its ashes and redouble her efforts. That had to be a way, there just had to be. She simply refused to accept she was defeated.

She reached home, battered and worn with cares. Casting her hat and outerwear onto the pegs under the stairs, she wandered through to the parlor, wondering if she was the only one home. The house seemed very quiet.

Casting herself into the most comfortable chair, she decided she was glad neither of her siblings was home. Hetty was no doubt being squired about by Sir Matthew, and as for Felix, he would be about some business or other. He seldom felt the need to keep his sisters informed of his habits, though he invariably turned up for meals.

It was only when she found the letter propped on the parlor mantel addressed Felix and Theodora in Hetty’s round handwriting that she felt the first pang of misgiving. Tearing it open she found she had not been the only one strategizing for her future. Her sister had eloped to France with Sir Matthew Hillingdon.

SIX

It was a full three weeks later that Clem found himself rapping on the door in Juniper Row. When there was no response, he was forced to apply himself to the door knocker for a second time, with more vigor. Perhaps the Fields’ housekeeper was half deaf? he reflected considering a third attack on the olive-green door with the brass knocker.

It was then he thought he caught some movement behind the stained-glass panels. Finally, the door swung back, and an odd figure stood outlined in the doorway. It was Theodora Fields, he recognized, though her manner of dress was even more peculiar than the last time he had seen her.

She looked like she had donned something agricultural workers wore when they worked in the fields. What was it called? A smock? She also had what looked like a wet tea towel wrapped around her wrist. She gazed at him uncomprehendingly a moment before recognition dawned in those gray eyes.

“Mr. Dabney!” she exclaimed in astonishment, starting forward as though to join him on the step outside, before pulling herself up short. “Did you come to see me, or …?” She glanced back over her shoulder. “Well, actually, no one else is home.”

“In that case, might I trouble you to come inside?” he asked smoothly. He was almost sure that Miss Fields was wholly oblivious to any disturbance in her respectable street, but Clem fancied he had already seen some curtains twitching in neighboring houses.

“Oh, er, yes, I suppose,” she murmured, before dropping back to let him in. “I would take you into the front parlor, but …” She glanced down at her peculiar outfit.

“You were in the middle of something?” he hazarded. “Gardening?”

A look of surprise flashed across her face. “Gardening? Whatever gave you that idea? No, no, I was just in the kitchen, making a … well a sort of pie,” she said vaguely. “I’m covered in flour.”

“I will be glad to accompany you there,” he assured her smoothly. “Lead the way.”

“Really?” She perked up at the suggestion of this social solecism and, shutting the door, led him past a dark wood staircase and down a narrow passageway until they reached an untidy kitchen. “I apologize for the mess. I am in the midst of preparing dinner.” She gazed down unhappily at the kitchen table which was covered in a mass of unevenly rolled dough.

“Felix says he refuses to eat stew for a third night in succession and asked for steak and kidney pudding.” Her tone was despairing. “I looked up the recipe, but there is so much faffing about with suet and the steaming of puddings, that I could not face it. So, I thought a steak and ale pie would do as well, but I think pastry is probably every bit as difficult. I cannot tell if I have overworked or underworked it, but it does not feel at all as they describe in the book, and it keeps sticking to the table no matter how much flour I fling down on it.” She gazed at him unhappily. “Tea?”

Instead of answering, he pointed at her arm. “What happened here?”

“I burned it on the range,” she confessed, turning away as her eyes became suspiciously watery.

“Can I see it?”

“It’s not really anything …” she protested as he propelled her toward a chair, sat her down, and peered under the tea towel at the large red welt.

“How about I make the tea and you just sit here a while?” he asked. “That cloth needs soaking again in cold water.”

Instead of demanding the reason of his visit, Theodora nodded and sniffed. “Tea would be nice,” she admitted. “I have not had time for a cup since breakfast.”

Clem approached the unwieldy kitchen range and eyed it a moment before making himself busy with the kettle. Once that was set on the stove, he peered into a large pitcher. “Is this just cold water?” he asked Theodora, who was now slumped in her seat with her eyes closed. She opened one eyelid to look.

“Yes,” she murmured.

He poured some in a bowl and approached her again to re-soak her impromptu bandage. She sat very still and docile as he performed these offices, though she did hiss through her teeth when the cold cloth touched her burned skin once more. Clem set her arm down on the table and looked about for a teapot and leaves.

Neither of them spoke again until he poured the brewed tea into two cups. Despite the fact they did not match their saucers, they were of the finest bone china. He pushed one toward her.

“Thank you,” she sighed and promptly drained the cup.

“Now you’ve likely burned your tongue as well,” he remarked.

She shook her head. “I only like it when it’s piping hot.”